The Bard: A Game of Thrones Fanfiction
by JWillis
Summary: Set several years before start of the TV show, a Dornish bard comes to Winterfell and asks the hospitality of House Stark.


Sitting near the shadows given off by the pale wax candle that was the only source of illumination in his small room, the bard could not help but once again realize how uncomfortably cold it could get in the north, especially for a Dornishman such as him. He had already formed a loose idea in his mind about a song to that effect, but given his current predicament he thought it would be best to let that idea rest for a while. It had been several long hours since he had been brought here and left here, several long hours since announcing his intention to enter the great castle of Winterfell to a pale-faced half-sleeping guard, several hours since the guard promised he would return with his commander momentarily. For a group of people so well known for their short patience, they were doing an admirable job of testing his.

Still, he supposed it was not the worst punishment one could dole out when a stranger comes knocking in the night. He had learned that well enough throughout his long days traveling all seven Kingdoms. In Dorne he had been placed in a dungeon cell for the few nights he was allowed to enjoy the hospitality of House Fowler, this despite the fact that he claimed as his own the same smooth olive skin, black hair, and dark brown eyes of most of his fellow Dornishmen. In the Stormlands he supposed he had been treated well enough, he had certainly made more money with his words and his songs than in any other region since beginning his long travel north. Yet that same mouth was missing a few teeth now thanks to the men and women that called Renly Baratheon their lord and Robert Baratheon their King.

His happiest times had been and most likely would remain in The Reach. While the size of his pockets had been reduced considerably thanks to his many indulgences within the region, he would always fondly remember traveling from town to town asking only a cup of wine and a spot at the table for a night's reward. One cup would inevitably lead to two or more, and in the end he did not leave the region so much as he was cast out of it. Perhaps it was for the best though, in The Reach the urge to break his oath of celibacy had never been stronger, and were he to have remained he likely would have been drunk in an alley right now or perhaps with some nameless whore. Instead he was here, so close to his ultimate goal.

In the Crownlands he had seen the best and worst of all Seven Kingdoms all at once. King's Landing was so unlike anything else he had ever seen that it may as well have been another world. In the end he had wined and dined with men and women who had more money than he could have spent given one thousand lifetimes, in the beginning he had slept in alleys and dined on bowls of brown sludge with suspicious meats that one could only imagine was chicken or beef. His urge to betray one oath may have been strongly tested in The Reach, but in his foolishness and perhaps even arrogance he had made several on the day he had left his home.

While The Reach tempted his oath of celibacy, it would be King's Landing that saw fit to test his oath to never stay in one place for long. He could have had a life there, better than any life once such as him deserved, and yet still he chose to cling to his oaths. They had been the only armor against the weight on his heart, the only shield that defended him at times when he had only the sky as his ceiling and a dead tree as his bed. He clung to them then, as he still clings to them now. Like the wife he could never have that haunts his dreams every night they have never left him, and just like he would for her, he would gladly die for them as well.

In the Westerlands he had truly learned what it meant to be an outsider. Those memories could not leave him, would never leave him, no matter how hard he tried. In those lands one look at him was all most needed to judge him fully, and most found him wanting. He had been spit on, kicked down into the dirt, tossed in cells for no other reason than the color of his skin, persecuted for no other reason than because he was different. The golden-haired bastards had even broken his hands, attempting to rob him of the only gift the gods saw fit to give him. If not for a travelling priest that had taken him in and nursed him back to health, he would have had no other means to provide for himself save for petty theft or even outright banditry. That would give his tormentors a perverse joy, he knew. He held no doubts that they would have gladly hanged him by day and at night, when they were deep in their cups, they would have assured themselves that they were right to persecute him given that, in the end, he had proven them right in thinking that all Dornishmen are troublemakers and scoundrels.

In a way he owed many thanks to his time in the Westerlands, though. It was there that his heart was hardened towards his fellow man, when once he had only known sympathy and brotherhood. Were it not for his time there, he would likely be dead by now. During his time in the Vale of Arryn he had been forced to kill a man for the first time in his life. It was an outlaw band, one of the mountain clans that had terrorized the lands of the Arryns for untold centuries, come crashing down in the night upon his band of traveling merchants and sellswords. His leg had been broken in the melee, had it not been for the same priest that healed his hands, he may have walked with a severe limp for the rest of his life. And that would have been the best outcome had he not talked Monterys into accompanying him; he supposed if things had gone badly he would have had one fewer leg to walk on, or perhaps even died of infection.

The priest saved his life in those days and months that followed, much like he had saved the priest during the melee. Sometimes at night the battle still raged in his dreams, his past self waging war against pale wraiths and shadows half-remembered. Yet one thing that he would never forget, could not ever forget, was the look on Monterys' face as he slid his knife into the neck of the clansmen that was about to split Monterys open from breastbone to navel. In the past he could have never killed a man from behind, his sense of honor would have prevented it. More than likely he could have never killed a man regardless, he was no coward but neither was he a warrior. His gifts had been in his hands, true, but those hands were designed to create and not destroy. Yet a different man had emerged from the Westerlands, and in much the same way a different man had emerged from The Vale.

It was that man that Monterys chose to leave after his leg healed and his bones knitted themselves back together, and if he were being honest with himself he could not blame the old priest. He did back then, though. In his cups he named the man betrayer, coward, and worse. And he had been in his cups most nights upon entering the Riverlands. He believed he deserved his fate then, and to this day he could not recall if he had spent more time sleeping in alleys or sleeping in prison cells. No great revelation saved him in the Tully lands, there were no moments of divine inspiration or intervention that forced him to bring his world back to order.

Instead he drew the unfortunate task of having to make his peace with himself entirely on his own. It was not a task he enjoyed completing, yet neither was it one he regretted. With no one left to turn to and no one there to help, the bard was forced to decide once and for all if defeat was an option. He decided that it was not.

It would be that same boldness that endeared him to the hard men and women of the Iron Islands. By the time he left them he had learned more trading galley songs and pirate shanties than any non-ironborn had the right to know. And just like they grew to love him, in a way he too had grown to love them. He would never forget the way an ironborn man would curse and spit at his supposed friend one moment, even striking the man if the thought occurred to him, and then dive overboard in a roaring storm to try and save that friend from drowning.

All those men, all those women, faces half-remembered and half-seen and some long forgotten… all of it, everything, the sum of his journey, had led him here: visiting ghosts in the night while he waited for somebody to let him know whether or not he was welcome here. The bard sighed impatiently; he had not meant to revisit the past on this night. As of late he had spent too much time revisiting the past, he could scarcely recall a moment in the last week where he had not wondered if he truly had the courage to do what he had vowed on a day that felt so long ago and so many lifetimes past. Perchance by fate or the will of the gods the man that he was now met the boy who had sworn all those oaths so many moons ago? What would he say to the child? Would he try to talk some sense in him, to tell him that any life was better than the one he ended up having? Was that the truth of it?

He did not think it was.

Perhaps that is why the bard faces uncertainty now, in what he once thought would be his greatest hour. His life's goal was to fulfill a great journey, but somewhere along the way his journey became his life. Now, at the end, what was left? He did not doubt he had the strength to complete his journey. He had known troubles, he had known heartache and sadness, he had spilt the blood of his enemies and defended the lives of his friends. So, yes, the bard truly knew that he was strong enough to finally see his journey to its end. He just didn't know if he had the strength to figure out what comes next.

And they would leave him that way, talking to ghosts and dancing through his past, for the rest of the night. His room lacked a bed, but what it did have was six solid walls made of stone, a chair, and a table. Perhaps it was more than one such as he deserved. He cannot say when he remembered falling asleep, but it was the morning's dawn that woke him from his slumber rather than any guard or guards. With a yawn and a stretch the bard went about the process of waking up to greet the new morning.

By his estimation it was roughly two more hours before he was finally seen. What he saw, however, was enough to surprise even him. The look of the Northman was plain enough: he saw the long face, the dark hair, and the cold eyes of stone thought to reflect the Northerner's frozen hearts. His beard showed bits of gray here and there, but still that was not surprising. The man had several guards accompanying him, perhaps more than normal, but one of the first things he learned about the Northerners was that they were ever cautious against outsiders. He actually liked that about them, considering that he could earn their trust once they got to know him. The Northerners were hesitant towards outsiders, but they would never outright reject them simply because they were different. He could not say the same for some of the other lands he had visited.

Still, what surprised the bard had nothing to do with the physical. Rather, the man who sat himself in front of him seemed to radiate authority, sending waves of it throughout every inch of the room. The bard felt it wash over him like a sea dashing itself against the rocks. He had felt that only a few times before during the long years of his travels, and with that feeling came the immediate knowledge of who it was he was speaking to. Perhaps this is why the bard chose to draw out the silence in the room until the man in front of him had no choice but to speak.

"Do you have nothing to say?" asked Eddard Stark of Winterfell.

With a peculiar calmness he was not sure he had any right to feel, the bard replied "I apologize if I have given offense, my lord. I learned long ago that when you are an outsider dealing with the master of a house, it is best to speak only when spoken to. And you are not only master of Winterfell, but of the whole region of the North. I only meant to pay respects."

Eddard eyed the bard coolly before replying, "It appears you have a keen eye and a sharp wit. You have named me, and so I am. I am Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and King Robert of the House Baratheon has seen fit to name me Warden of the North, ruling these lands in his name. And what of you?"

"Me, my lord? I am but a humble bard, having spent many long years of my life traveling these Seven Kingdoms in search of my ultimate goal. I would ask the honor of your hospitality, and in return I offer my services as a bard and, if that was not enough, I am sure there are other labors one could do to earn his keep. But I assure you, one song from me is all you need to know that a place at your fire and a spot at your table is a bargain for my talents."

Very few times in his life had the bard felt naked in front of anyone, man or woman, and yet he felt as if he were a newborn babe in front of this Eddard of the House Stark. He had made a mistake in thinking the man's eyes were the common eyes of most Northmen. Looking into them now, he truly understood why most people he met on his long road north told him that the Starks were made of stone and would offer no help to him.

So it was with a certain grim acceptance that the bard listened as Eddard told him, "So you say sir. Yet I am troubled by your story. We do not get many bards here in the North, and with good reason. We are not the richest of the Seven Kingdoms, so most of whom you'll find here has no money to spend on jesters or bards or other entertainments. Most have no time for your like either, not with the harvests that must be made to prepare for the long winter. Nor even do we have a history with song. Our history was carved in runes by the First Men, whose blood still flows in our veins. And yet here you are."

With a shrug the bard simply replied "And yet here I am".

In the silence that followed, the bard was already contemplating in his mind how long it would take him to reach the next town, the next castle, and whether or not he would have to stay in Winterfell regardless of Lord Stark's decision, since his food was running low and his resources even lower. After a short while, Lord Eddard broke the silence by saying "Tell me, why did you not call out to the guards during the night? You are a stranger here, but even strangers deserve some hospitality."

"My lord, you have followed all rules of hospitality simply by letting me inside of your castle for the night. It is a far warmer welcome than most have given me. I was told that I would be seen eventually, and that later on it would be decided what was done with me. I have spent many long nights on the road and my feet were tired. Just yesterday my only chair was a rotting log, with dirt underneath me and solid sky above, rather than the stout stone walls of the great castle of Winterfell. I was told I would be seen, and now I am being seen. That is enough for me."

It was several long seconds before Stark replied. "So you say. Yet we have a way of testing outsiders in the North. In the North, it is said that a man's only true friends are loneliness and the cold, since neither ever leaves him in this land. When all a man has left to occupy his time is the cold and his own thoughts, one learns quickly his measure. Most would have demanded to see a guard within the hour. Some considered the wait a stain on their honor. One man even demanded that he be allowed to petition the King and charge House Stark with unlawful imprisonment in full violation of the King's laws and the King's justice. It is a rare sight to see someone sit still and fall asleep."

"If I may be so bold my lord, I am a rare man."

"Is that not what all bards say about themselves and their talents?"

"I cannot say my lord, I have not met every bard."

It was a gamble saying those words, he knew, and yet he said them anyway. The bard knew that if his cause was not lost before, surely it must be lost now. But something inside of him told him that this Stark was a man that could use some humor in his life. It took a certain kind of man to make a Northerner laugh, especially if that man was an outsider, and the bard could not help but wonder if he was such a man. And so he gambled.

And somewhere, some god answered his prayers, for Eddard Stark said "True enough. For now, you will be given a room. Water will be provided for you should you wish to bathe, and meals will be served to you at the appropriate times. Yet you wish to join me at my table, and that is not an honor I can currently give. I know not how much you know of me and my House, so let me make you aware: I rule these lands with my wife and our children, young little boys and girls still ignorant of all the evils men can do. If you wish to perform in front of them, if you wish access to my home where my wife sleeps and my children play with their toys, then I must know you and your character fully. You will tell me your story, bard, and you will leave nothing out. If you are found wanting, you will be given enough food and the proper directions to make it to the next town. If I find you acceptable, the full hospitality of House Stark is yours. What do you say to that?"

With a grin the bard replied "It is a long story my lord, and the day has just begun. Surely you have other duties. I wish to earn the hospitality of your House, 'tis true, and I thank you for allowing me the opportunity. I assure you, you are being kinder than you know. So I propose a compromise: allow me to speak with your maester if he is not busy, and allow him to give you a version of my story that will not take a moon's turn in the telling. I am unlike any bard, yet I am still a bard. And amongst us, no song is as precious or takes as long in the telling as our own. I realize your maester may have other duties. I am willing to wait as long as it takes to ensure that the tale is told fully and truly."

And so the deal was struck. After that, it was simply a matter of getting settled into Winterfell. The castle was surprisingly warm; his guards took pride in detailing how a long series of pipes pumped water from an underground hot spring through the castle walls like blood through a man's veins. On his first day in Winterfell the bard chose to bathe in an exposed hot spring, simply to taste the experience. This close to his journey's end there were precious few new experiences left for one such as he, and he committed himself to seeking them out during his days in the great castle.

The Starks were kinder than they realized, and in only a few days the bard began to appreciate the humble Northmen and their ways. He was not given free reign of the castle, but neither was he confined to his room for all hours of the day. Eddard's leadership, the same leadership he felt firsthand during their initial meeting, had apparently flowed down the chain of command quite thoroughly. Whenever he tried to enter an area he wasn't supposed to, he was told plainly but sternly that it was off limits. And that was that, unless he chose to test his bonds. The idea struck the bard as a fleeting fancy once or twice, but in the end the gentle peace between the Stark household and the bard prevailed throughout the several days it took for him to tell his tale.

The telling began that very same night, long after the evening's meal and right as the bard was contemplating sleep. He wondered if this Eddard was more clever than he initially suspected, he was beginning to see how this waiting game they were playing had broken several men before him. Nevertheless he attempted to greet the old maester with the respect and courtesy due to one of the knights of the mind. The man known as Luwin eyed him suspiciously and replied to his questions and comments with only the barest courtesies. With a sigh and a nod, and with the knowledge that his duty was the only reason the maester was speaking to one such as he, the bard began his tale.

"Twenty-eight years ago, or near as much as to make no difference, I was born in Dorne. My mother was a cook specializing in baked goods and pastries, which is why I had a considerable issue with my weight as I grew into a man. My father was a jester, like his father before him. Father's specialty was juggling dangerous things: knives and the like. One time at a wedding celebration he lost two fingers attempting to juggle a pair of broadswords. The poor man wasn't even paid for that occasion, the blushing bride fainted and the husband swore that the wedding had been ruined. Our life was rough for the first few years, with father barely scraping by and mother repeatedly having her recipes stolen while others saw fit to take credit for her work.

"Our fortunes changed one day in the summer of my fifth year, when I had been sent to the Water Gardens to foster. In Dorne, the Water Gardens are known far and wide as an area where all children are welcome, especially during the hot summer when the sun grows so big it is like to melt the flesh right off of a man's bones if he were to spend too much time in it. My mother sent me there for a few days, a week, a month, I can no longer recall. What I do recall is that she sent me an ample supply of pastries to fill my round belly. Children can be harsh creatures at that age, and I was routinely made fun of and tormented by those unlike myself.

"One time, a group of boys got it in their heads that I had enough food stored up in my belly that I didn't need to eat anymore, and so they stole my mother's pastries. When I attempted to fight them, they struck me over the head and face. One boy even held me underwater until my vision blurred and my mind faded. I supposed the boy would have killed me then, had it not been for a kind little girl that saw my predicament and ordered the boys to stop."

At that, the old maester raised his eyebrows and looked at the bard accusingly. "You're telling me that a group of young boys beat you for your mother's pastries and would have drowned you, but a small girl stopped them?"

"My good man, this was no ordinary girl. In the Water Gardens, all children are welcome, from the lowest of birth to the highest. This girl was a member of House Martell, the rulers of Dorne, just as your Eddard rules the North. It was not her they feared, but the power of her father and her House. One of the child's guards pulled me from the pools and breathed life back into my chest, and as a show of gratitude I offered both the girl and the guard my mother's sweets. So enraptured with them they were! That was the first time I saw her smile, and from that moment on, my heart was hers.

"Things moved quickly for us after that. The girl told her father and mother, and just like the boys feared, they were sternly disciplined by their own parents. The girl demanded that our family be allowed to move into Sunspear, into the royal palace no less, so that my mother's sweets would never be far from her. Tiny as she was, she was willful and brave. And beautiful. So very beautiful."

With that the bard stayed silent for a few moments. He had not expected the hurt her memory would give him, at least not now, so close to finally putting her and all the rest behind him. He knew that some wounds never healed, he even knew that hers was one such as those, but he had not expected the wound to reopen so easily nor run as quickly as it was doing now. Maester Luwin took the time to refill his ink bottle, stretch out his hands, and yawn stiffly. The Maester's words were coming softer now, and were tinged with drowsiness, but still he said, "Please continue."

"My mother and father agreed quickly enough, as you could imagine. My mother was finally given the credit she was due, my father saw a chance to retire from his trade and become her assistant, hoping that his other fingers would survive with him until the end of his life. The poor man was just as accident-prone in the kitchen as he was in the fairs and markets; two years into our life at Sunspear he lost half a pinky on a bet that he could no longer juggle as well as he used to. My mother, emboldened by her new reputation as one of the great chefs of the land, warned my father that she would serve him the rest of his fingers if he was ever foolish enough to lose even one more, even just the tip. From then on I remember my father as a kind and simple man, ever subservient to my mother.

"My mother, may the gods give her rest, had precious little time for me once her new job brought about with it new demands. I never hated her for it, and I was certainly treated well. As the son of House Martell's favored chef, I was allowed certain rights and privileges that I could have only dreamed of had our situation remained unchanged. I was taught by wise men, trained by hardened soldiers, in my youth I even dreamed of becoming a knight. I learned my letters and my numbers, and while I was no master scholar neither was I a lackwit. I suppose I could have done better had I truly applied myself… but my attentions remained focused on her. Only her.

"I dreamed of being with her, sometimes it would be weeks before a night would go by where I wasn't rescuing her from a dragon or winning some great tournament with her favor tucked close to my heart. We grew up together. She was my best friend and my closest confidant. I held her close and told her it would be all right when her favorite pony broke its leg in a training accident and had to be put down. I held her hair back and made sure she didn't spoil her dress after we stole some wine from her father's solar and drank far too much of it for one night. I was the first person she told when her moon's blood came upon her for the first time, signaling her shift from a girl to a woman. By then we were virtually inseparable.

"Foolish boy that I was, I thought I was in love. And as I grew into a man, my dreams slowly turned from doing things for her to doing things to her. But the hour is late Maester Luwin, and I fear I have talked you into a waking sleep. I will resume my tale tomorrow. I thank you for your company."

With a nod and a yawn, the Maester packed up his things and left for the night. The next day the bard began performing for the first time, sitting by himself in the market square with nothing but his instrument and a small hat for collecting change. He was never given permission to perform for the Starks, yet he was also never forbidden from performing in front of the common people. The bard hoped the Starks would be able to recognize the difference, and to his surprise, he was allowed to perform unmolested. He learned that Eddard's words range true that day; the amount of money he made was paltry and the looks he received ranged from quizzical to confused to downright cynical. Still, it felt good to perform and be himself.

That night Luwin made no mention of his performance, but rather seemed eager to get back to his story. And so the bard began.

"When I was fourteen years old, the girl was promised in marriage to some Lord in a distant land. My heart broke in two on that day. Not only would she never be mine, she would also be taken away from me, living the rest of her life far from home, far from the life we made and the people we loved. And who would do this to her? Some man I had never met, some man who had never met her. This was the way of things, they said. No, I decided. Our story would not end that way.

"Fool that I was, I asked her to run away with me. I confessed my love to her, my undying love, and told her that I would find a way to give her everything her heart desired, for she was all mine desired. I told her that we would run away, get married, have children, and raise them with laughter in their thoughts and love in their hearts. I promised to sing her to sleep every night and kiss her awake every morning. I swore to defend her honor until the day I died and that she would never have to fear any man, woman, or beast so long as I was near her. I urged her to turn her back on the rules and customs that seemed so alien to us, the system that would take her away from her family and her friends and cast her out into a foreign land where she would likely be hated and distrusted as an outsider.

"I told her that our love would last forever. I told her that she was my Nymeria, and like the ancient Princess I asked her to sail away with me to distant lands in search of a place that we could call our own."

At this, the bard sighed and leaned back in his chair. He was silent for a time. When the anticipation had grown too much to bear, the maester called out, "And? What came of it?"

With a shrug the bard replied simply, "She said no."

"It cannot be as simple as that, surely."

"Surely, Maester Luwin, it was not. I can remember her exact words, even to this day, but I will spare your hand the effort it would take to write them all down. She spoke of duty and honor, and how she would be betraying her House. She spoke of our friendship as just that: a friendship. I was like a brother to her, and like a brother she could never take me as a lover. She would cherish me always, but she wanted this new life. She would have her grand adventure, and just like ancient Nymeria she would set forth out of her home and go to a distant land where she would rule kindly and fairly. And one day when she returned to Dorne, she would return cloaked in honor and high in esteem, the noble head of a noble house, with children of Dornish and Andal blood that would possess the best qualities of both. She would help raise the name of Martell to heights it had never seen, even when the Martells were the Kings of this land and bowed to no one.

"She had been promised that the man she married was a good man, swift and true and virtuous, and she wanted to meet this man and have his sons if she fancied him. And if she didn't she swore to me she would kill him with her own hands if he ever proved unjust. She said that she would always love me and remember me fondly. I heard all of this, every word, yet in a way I heard nothing. Nothing, except her refusal. In my anger, I wanted to ask her to rip my beating heart out of my chest and end my suffering. I wanted to tell her that I should have taken her on the night we had stolen the wine and drank far too much of it, so at least then I could say that I would have one thing her husband could never have. Foolish, blind idiot that I was, I wanted to hurt her as badly as she hurt me.

"I cannot tell you what stopped me, Maester. Perhaps it was divine intervention. I remember a feeling of perfect clarity, as if I were seeing into the future. It passed in the blink of an eye, but for the briefest of moments, I knew and perfectly understood what I had to do. So I said nothing. I kissed her, true, but on her forehead. I kissed her in the way that a brother kisses his sister… a goodbye kiss, you see.

"And after that… after that it was all a blur. I remember swearing several oaths to myself and to the gods. I remember taking the inheritance my mother left me and using it to buy supplies, arms, and a horse. I remember several of my friends calling me a fool and several others calling me a lunatic. But I knew what I had to do. I was gone from Dorne within the week. And I have never been back since."

With a yawn and a telling look at the room's candle, which was threatening to go out, Maester Luwin replied, "And what of these oaths? What were they?"

"I will tell you my good Maester, but not tonight. I fear I have taken up too much of your time. We shall begin again tomorrow or the next day. I am in your service."

It would be another three days before Luwin returned. From the guards he was quickly becoming friends with he learned that Luwin and most of Stark's inner circle had been called away to deal with "High Lord Business" as the rank-and-file called it. In those three days the bard took the time to get better at his craft. By the third day he had actually managed to draw a crowd and illicit a few cheers and even some scattered applause. He thanked the good men and women of Winterfell for their hospitality and retired for the night, awaiting word from Luwin. And sure enough, the old man returned to his room later that night, looking a bit more tired than usual perhaps. Nevertheless he urged the bard to continue. And so it began.

"The first oath was an oath of celibacy. I had never lain with anyone before, you see, and I planned to keep it that way. I certainly had the opportunity, dozens of them in fact, ever since I was twelve. We Dornish are known for indulging ourselves, and we do not fear our sexuality like the Andals do. Unlike the Andals we do not consider lust sinful, and to us the naked body is the surest sign that the Gods are merciful and beautiful. To tell you the truth, some of those dozens of opportunities came from boys just like myself, and since you want me to tell you the tale fully and truly Maester Luwin, I will tell you that even at that age some of those opportunities came from men as old as you.

"But it would not do, you see. I had been saving myself for her, all those years, and now no one else would do. The whole sum of the world, an ocean of women and men and sex… it all meant nothing if I could not take her in my arms at night, could not put a child in her belly, could not watch as she gave birth to our children. I could have had hundreds of women, now with these many years past it could have been thousands, but all I wanted… all I still want… was a future where we would die in each other's arms, long past the point where both our lower parts stopped working. And so I swore.

"My next oath was that I would travel all Seven Kingdoms or die in the attempt. I would see these lands that I had only read about in books, I would travel to places that I had only heard of from passing traders. I would taste sweet victory and also drink from the cup of bitter defeat. I would scale the Mountains of the Moon. I would sail the Trident. I would visit King's Landing and touch the skulls of ancient dragons with my own two hands. I would not have my Nymeria by my side, but I would go on a grand adventure that one day songs could be written about. And so I swore.

"My third oath was that I would never remain in one place for longer than two years. I never wanted to allow myself to think that settling down was ever an option; to do so would be to abandon my quest. Yet I also wanted to give myself time to fully experience the Seven Kingdoms, to help give my story some interesting chapters, to give my song some interesting flair. No song is ever good if it's only half-completed, and I knew that I would need enough time to live like a man of the region without fully becoming a man of the region. I would learn their songs, learn their ways, make them my own, and leave before my fondness grew too strong. And so I swore.

"My final oath is what brings me here to you, Maester Luwin. In my youth I was fond of ancient history. My friends teased me that if given the chance I would have liked to stick my nose into a book rather than up a girl's skirts. One of my favorite stories was the Battle for the Dawn, which marked the end of the Long Night. It was this battle that finally drove back The Others to whatever frozen hell they had been spawned from. In that story, the noble order of the Night's Watch is formed, and it is those black brothers that ride against the Other's armies and those same men that erect The Wall meant to keep them out, The Wall at the end of the world. They father no children, take no wives, and win no glories. Their wife is the realm, and their duty is to protect all living things inside of it.

"If by some miracle I managed to keep all my other oaths unbroken, my final oath was that my journey would end at Castle Black, in the North where the wind howls and the snow comes down like rain and the men are made of stone. And there I would offer myself up to the Night's Watch, to live the rest of my life defending the realm. Thirty years I would give to them in service, then another ten training younger men. And so I planned. And so I swore."

It was several long minutes before Maester Luwin continued their conversation. In that time he stretched, yawned, rubbed his eyes, looked at his notes, and even talked briefly to himself in a hushed tone. After a while he said, "You are aware that the Night's Watch serve for life, sir? And that the punishment for desertion is death? By your own accounts, you are roughly twenty-eight years of age. Given thirty years of service and ten dedicated to training, that would make you sixty-eight. What happens next?"

With a shrug and a laugh the bard replied "If I live that long? I suppose I will then die an old man, and hope that I've done enough in my life that my passing is mourned and not celebrated."

And for the first time in the many days since Maester Luwin had first come calling with his pens and his inks and his looks and his questions… the bard saw him chuckle.

It was another four days before the bard was finally called before Eddard Stark once again to hear his final judgment. In that time, the bard grew content that no matter what the great Lord decided, he would leave Winterfell in peace. It had been a long time since anyone had asked him his story, and not since Monterys had he ever told it fully and truly. It felt as if a great weight had come off of him, and he knew now that come what may he would have the strength to present himself to the brothers of the Night's Watch and ask to join their order.

In those four days the bard poured himself into his craft, playing like he had not played in years. He sang with the voice of his soul, he played to the tune of his heart. In four days time the crowd he drew had grown so significantly that he was ultimately forced to stop playing; the guards had to pull him aside and explain to him that nothing was getting done and that everyone needed to get back to work. When he was summoned to meet the head of House Stark that same day, he assumed the meeting had been organized so he could be properly chastised for wasting the time of the general public and then kicked out. He resolved to meet the lord's judgment with fairness and grace, regardless of what it may be.

But it was a day full of surprises. On the surface, Eddard Stark looked no different from when they first met. He had a way of being the largest man in the room, the bard thought that the man would cast an intimidating shadow until he was buried in Winterfell's crypts with his forefathers, an iron sword on his lap and a direwolf sitting at his side. Yet it was Eddard's eyes that surprised him: when once they were as hard as stone, today they seemed as soft as a gentle fog. But the man was still Eddard of House Stark, Warden of the North, and he wasted no time with useless frivolities. He began promptly.

"It has been several days since you finished telling your tale to Maester Luwin. In that time, we have discussed your story amongst ourselves. We now wish to tell you of our decision."

"I am in your service and throw myself upon your mercy my Lord."

"So you say. I do want to believe you, bard. You have spent weeks here as a guest, do not think that your actions in that time have gone unnoticed. You have helped stableboys feed horses. You have helped bakers bake bread. Old women have you to thank for their water, young children have spent their days listening to your songs and your jests. You appear to be everything you say you are. And that is the problem."

"I am sorry my lord, but you have me at a loss. I know not what that is supposed to mean."

"There is a saying in the North, bard, that if a man offers you a deal that is too good to be true, you should never take it, because it always will be. If these oaths of yours are true, if you swear that you have not broken them, then you are just and honest and honorable. We live in a world where some men can be one of those three things, but we also live in a world where only the best of men are ever all three. I am just not fully convinced that you are not doing all this for your own selfish reasons."

"Then I fear you have me mistaken, my lord. I am doing this for selfish reasons."

With that, the fog lifted. In the blink of an eye, Eddard's had turned back to stone. His guards exchanged brusque glances with each other. With a voice of iron Eddard replied "Then please explain these reasons, bard. And speak truly. Your next words could be your last as a friend of Winterfell."

With no fear in his eyes, the bard met Eddard's stare. It was the coldest stare he had ever known, but he met it all the same. "There is only one reason I do these things, my lord. One reason for getting out of bed every morning, for working until the end of the day, only one reason why I do anything at all."

"Then say it."

And suddenly, without warning, all the old pains came rushing back. It was all the bard could do to not burst out in tears or hysterical laughter. Perhaps it was a truth he had been hiding deep down inside himself for too long, far too long. But this close to his final destination, he could no longer hide from it. With a laugh that was half a sob, the bard spoke.

"Everything I do, I do in the hopes that one day, someday, someplace warm, in this life or the next life or in a hundred thousand lives from now… I will be worthy of her."

The silence that filled the room seemed like it would never end. He cannot say when it did. He was too lost in his own thoughts, too busy chasing his down demons. After a time, Eddard said "I hear tell you have won over the hearts of my people. Tell me how you did it."

"With a song, my lord, only a song."

"What song?"

"Her song, my lord. Only her song."

With a look and a nod, Eddard dismissed one of his guards. A few short minutes later, the man returned with the bard's instruments. He laid them before the bard carefully, and the bard received them lovingly. Eddard Stark began again.

"I must admit that I have never heard you play. I would ask that you play for me now."

"As you wish my lord."

And with that, the bard began.

_You only need a fire when it's burning low  
>You only miss the summer when it starts to snow<br>I only knew I loved her when I let her go_

_You only know you've been high when you're flying low  
>You only hate the road when you're far from home<br>I only knew I loved her when I let her go  
>And I let her go<em>

_Staring at the bottom of my glass  
>Hoping one day I'll make a dream last<br>But dreams come slow and they die so fast_

_I see her when I close my eyes  
>Maybe one day we'll understand why<br>Everyone we love surely dies_

_But you only need a fire when it's burning low  
>You only miss the summer when it starts to snow<br>And I only knew I loved her when I let her go_

_You only know you've been high when you're flying low  
>You only hate the road when you're far from home<br>I truly knew I loved her when I let her go  
>And I let her go<em>

_Staring at the sky in the dark  
>Same old empty feeling in my heart<br>'Cause love comes slow and I've travelled so far_

_I see her once I fall asleep  
>But never to kiss and never to keep<br>Because I loved her too much  
>And I dived too deep<em>

_And you only need a fire when it's burning low  
>You only miss the summer when it starts to snow<br>I truly knew I loved her when I let her go_

_You only know you've been high when you're flying low  
>You only hate the road when you're far from home<br>I truly knew I loved her when I let her go  
>And I let her go<em>

A queer look came upon the eyes of Eddard Stark by the time the bard finished his tale. The bard wondered if this Eddard of House Stark had ever lost a woman dear to him, whether literally or figuratively. He must have, for the naked pain in his eyes was all too real and all too obvious to see. And for the briefest of moments, the lowest of bards pitied the highest of Lords.

Briefly, the bard wondered if he should say something. Instead, he chose to remain silent. In the end, Eddard Stark rose out of his chair, and in a commanding voice addressed the bard. "I, Eddard, of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, do hereby grant you the full hospitality of House Stark with all rights and privileges. I ask that you seat yourself at my table, and bring laughter and joy to my wife and our children."

The bard could not help but kneel. On his knees he replied, "You give a broken man an honor he does not deserve, sir. You know of my final destination and what I must do, but for the time being, I am in your debt and in your service, and will do whatever you will."

"Rise, then, and the next time I see you shall be at dinner. I will announce you to my men and introduce you to my children. We will see you perform during our meals and later you will be given a seat of honor. I only have one request."

"Simply name it my lord, and I promise it shall be done."

"I see now the power of your voice and your words. It is a good song, bard. Yet with it, it brings memories. They are my own memories, and the fault is not your own. Still, I would ask that you never again play that song when in my presence."

And with that, the bard realized once again that some wounds never heal. Some wounds strike at the heart and the soul, and never go away. They simply scab over, and at the lightest prick they open wide and run freely. Once again the bard could not help but feel pity. "Of course my lord. As you command."

And from then on, the bard became a fixture at House Stark's table. Eddard's children grew to love him, and he them. He loved bold Rob and bolder Jon and Arya, who may be the boldest girl he had ever known. He loved sweet Sansa and gentle Bran. He even found himself growing fond of baby Rickon, freshly born and still suckling at his mother's teat. The lady Catelyn was tough to please at first, and ever protective of her children, but in the end he earned her confidence as well.

The days were simple at Winterfell, and in that simplicity he found peace. He worked until he was sore, and then he sang. He learned what it meant to be a man of the North, and he found himself admiring the people of Winterfell. There were no political intrigues, no internal backstabbing, no plots or secrets or twists or turns. It was too cold for such nonsense. In fact, towards the end of his stay he began to fully understand why The North was unwelcoming of strangers. Strangers brought their problems with them, and so many were too selfish to see that The North had problems of its own. When the winds come howling down and the cold steals all the air from your chest and all the heat from your fire, what right have you to speak of problems? What is the purpose of conflicts and politics and intrigues if one failed harvest could be the difference between life and death?

And so it went. And so he sang.

It is said that all men must die and that all things must end; so too did the bard's time at Winterfell eventually draw to a close. The bard made his peace with Winterfell and all its citizens, from high to low. Yet he could still not make his peace with himself, in spite of it all. He hoped that would come later. He hoped that the Night's Watch would take him in and that he would rise high amongst his new brothers. He hoped that one day, given ten or twenty or thirty or forty years, he would stop chasing his love through the landscape of his dreams and finally catch her.

He hoped. After all this time, after all he'd done, after all he'd lost… he still had that. And that was good enough for him.


End file.
